We’re coming up on that moment that arrives with great precision each year … the end of daylight savings time. We did our “spring ahead” thing last March, and now we get our reward … the hour that we lost is returned to us. This means that I will be an hour early for any appointment that I have on the days of November 6-7, since it usually takes me two days to get it together.
During the years that immediately followed my divorce, a time when I clearly couldn’t blame anyone else for snafus in my scheduling, there were two events which transpired each year. The first occurred on a Sunday in March when I would arrive at church just in time to see everyone else leaving. And the second event was in November when I would arrive at the same place on yet another Sunday and find the door locked because nobody else would be coming for another hour. I never got it squared away.
This two-act farce only ended when I stopped going to church. Maybe I’ll be oriented to time when I awaken on November 6, but I wouldn’t bet on it.
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Possible ER Scenario on November 6
Mr. Flom, you’ve had a nasty bump on your head and I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that would be okay?
Sure, go ahead.
Do you know what time it is?
Haven’t a clue. Next question.
Do you know what day it is?
Let’s see, hmmmmmm … feels like a Tuesday
The month?
It comes after Halloween, I know that.
Do you know who’s president of the United States?
I know who isn’t, and that’s Donald Cluck. Good enough?
Do you know who and where you are?
Now we’re getting somewhere. Which of us, and I ask you this sincerely, really knows the answer to that question?
Nurse, I think we’re going to admit Mr. Flom for observation. And could you arrange for a room with a lockable door until psychiatry has a chance to look him over?
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From The New Yorker
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Robin had a birthday this past Thursday, on a cold and rainy day, which is nothing special for November, I’m afraid. We were supposed to have traveled on that day to Durango, to attend a performance of a musical that Aiden acts and sings in. But the weather (sleet and heavy snow at altitudes) brought out the latent chicken in us and we remained at home.
I think that at some point in their lives, if a person’s birthday falls in a chilly and transitional month like November, they should be allowed to choose a new date. Perhaps something of the May, June, or July variety. The new birthdate wouldn’t have any legal bearing, of course, changing that would be … is impossible the right word here?
But we could call it a new social birthday without too much fuss, eh? An email to friends and family and it’s a done deal. This would also help out those friends and family, because it would open up new choices for gifting. For instance, if I wanted to give Robin a new pair of sandals let’s face it, November is a lousy time to do it. The things would sit in a closet until all the sleet had melted away in March or April, and by then some of their special-ness would have worn off for certain.
This exact thing happened this year. Robin had wanted a new non-electric bicycle, so we found an excellent one available locally, and her conditions were that this would be her birthday gift for 2022. I think that she was able to ride it only three times, and now it is stored away in the corner of the garage until Spring.
But if her social birthday had been in June … if I have any point at all, have I made it?
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This past week I had the unusual experience of having a new problem solving an old one. A local group is collecting warm clothing to be sent to Ukraine, where the coming winter promises much hardship. The sponsors requested no cotton garments, but only those made of wool (personally I think that they should have added fleece garments, which are almost as warm, easier to keep clean, and dry much faster when wet, but, hey, it’s not my party).
My old problem was that I had more lovely sweaters and heavy shirts than I needed, accumulated as gifts over many years. At the end of the last winter season I realized there were several that I hadn’t worn at all, because my go-to garments were so often made of fleece. So the folks in Ukraine who are my size will be receiving those sweaters and shirts that were causing me to feel guilty. Those people will be warmer, and I still have more than enough to cover my corpus when the winds howl about the homestead this December.
Win, win.
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Little Home In The Valley 